


Made of Steel

by foibles_fables



Category: Grey's Anatomy
Genre: Comfort/Family, Gen, Hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-09
Updated: 2010-01-09
Packaged: 2017-10-20 02:18:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/207729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foibles_fables/pseuds/foibles_fables
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'm fine. But I need your help. Are you listening?" ; When Lexie's phone rings at two o'clock in the morning, Meredith makes some requests of her, and she is finally given a chance at requital. Set between "Holidaze" and "Blink."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Made of Steel

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer: Grey's Anatomy is the property of Shonda Rhimes and ABC. This writing is for entertainment purposes only and is not for profit.**

**Disclaimer: Grey's Anatomy is the property of Shonda Rhimes and ABC. This writing is for entertainment purposes only and is not for profit.**

 **Opening lyrics from "Made of Steel" by Our Lady Peace.  
-**

 _You wanted a hero tonight_

 _Well I'm not made of steel_

 _I'm not made of steel_

 _But your secret's safe with me_

You're in a different world.

It's a wonderful place where patients never died, your mother visits you at work, Meredith smiles at you every time she sees you, Mark is shirtless all the time (even during surgery… _especially_ during surgery), and long-lost pregnant eighteen-year-old daughters don't exist. It's an alternate universe which you would just love to be a part of. You know it's not real, and you accept that, however begrudgingly.

It's just nice to be reminded that bliss still _does_ exist, even if it only exists while you're asleep.

Which was precisely why you feel that surge of anger when an annoying rattling noise rips you from your warm, fuzzy dream.

A full vibration passes before you regain any sort of motor function, having been in such a deep (and pleasant) sleep for so long. With a tiny groan, you arch your back in an involuntary stretch. Your skin slides against Mark's, your body pressing into his, causing him to stir as well. You're several inches farther up on the bed than he is, bare back flush with his bare chest; his mouth rests right between your shoulder blades, breathing smoothly against your skin.

At least there's no horrendous beeping to accompany the buzzing, that sick pseudo-harmony of the pager. Still, you kept your eyes shut. The longer they're closed, the longer you can make believe you're still asleep, the longer you can make believe you aren't where you _are._

Three vibrations. Mark sighs and pulls himself up to where you're lying, palm sliding from the curve of your hip, over your arm, stopping at your shoulder. "It's my phone," you whisper in the midst of a patch of clarity, reaching back with one hand to gently touch the back of his head. "Go back to sleep." You don't need to tell him twice – silently, he kisses the back of your neck before releasing you, rolling over, and promptly falling asleep once again. You're envious for a moment before the fourth vibration seizes your attention once again.

You reach for the nightstand and paw around for your cell phone. It's skittering across the smooth surface in the throes of yet another vibration, winding up precariously close the edge, and you grab it right before it can tumble to the floor.

With the disgruntled sentiment of _who the hell is calling me at two o'clock in the morning_ , you raise the phone to your face and squint into the painfully bright screen. The tiny letters are hard to identify through your blurry, watery vision.

When it comes into focus, though, your heart seizes. Your arm moves involuntarily, throw the blankets and comforter off of yourself and you sit bolt upright, only to squeak an expletive and cover yourself once again when the chilly air assaults you.

The name on your cell phone's caller ID justifies your action completely.

 _Meredith_.

The name has about the same effect on your sluggish senses as a bucket of cold water. You press the answer button. Your stomach flips, once, twice. First, excitement: Meredith is calling you. Oh my _god_ , Meredith is calling you. Then, anxiety: Meredith is calling you at an ungodly hour. Maybe she drunk-dialed you. With a million questions swarming around in your head, you speak. "Hello?" Your voice is soft – you don't want to wake Mark – and hoarse with exhaustion.

" _Lexie, hi_ ," a tinny version of Meredith's voice floods from the earpiece. She sounds sober enough. " _Did I wake you?_ "

 _Yes_. "No," you reply. Meanwhile, you're rubbing your eyes with your fist and wondering if Meredith knows just how asleep (and naked, for that matter) you are. "I was…I was up." You bite your lip, suppressing the yawn that would give you away. "What's going on?" you ask, wrapping your left arm around your midsection to conserve warmth.

There's silence, then, such a long pause that you think the call had been dropped. " _I need your help._ " Your sister's voice is eerily calm, not at all suited for the words she just said. But there's this waver behind of uncertainty behind them, incredibly subtle but there. You've spent too much time studying every nuance of Meredith's voice not to notice. Something's wrong. And it unnerves you.

"Are you okay?" You struggle to keep your own voice calm as well. "Are you hurt or…"

" _I'm fine_ ," Meredith interrupts sharply. Then, as if she just realized that she definitely didn't _sound_ fine, she quickly repeats herself. " _I'm fine. But I need your help. Are you listening?_ " You nod, and immediately feel very stupid because how would Meredith know that you nodded? Somehow, Meredith must have picked up on it, because she continues. " _I need you to drive to my house, right now. Bring a suture kit with you, I know you have at least one left over_." Meredith is correct – you had stolen a few from the hospital with the intent of practicing in the wake of the Finger Incident. " _Don't tell anyone about this. If Mark asks, tell him you're going to pick me up from Joe's. Do you understand?_ " Her words sound calculated and strained. Your pulse races.

"Um, yeah. Yeah," you say, nodding vigorously several times. "I'll be right there, Meredith. Just give me, like, fifteen minutes and I'll be there," you promise her, speaking so quickly that the words ball up in your mouth and you have to physically force them out. You're already halfway out of bed.

" _Okay_ ," Meredith replies, and you're about to hang up when Meredith stops you in your tracks. " _Wait, Lexie, don't hang up yet."_

"Huh?"

" _If you can-_ " then there's another long pause, and you imagine Meredith taking a deep breath, " _bring a bottle of vodka with you too_."

Then, the call disconnects. Meredith is no longer on the other side of the phone – the invisible wire connecting you had disappeared. You stare at the blinking call time counter. Just over fifty seconds.

(you never would have guessed how much less than one minute on the phone would come to mean)

Out from under the covers, you float briskly through the bedroom, nervous energy exploding in quick, spastic movements. You're not worried about waking Mark anymore – a light snore rises from his sleeping body in calm, regular intervals. He won't wake up again until his alarm goes off. Still, you dress in the dark, grabbing the first item of each necessity as you stumble (figuratively or literally) across them: sweatpants, underwear, a bra, socks, and a sweater. Once you're clothed, you pull her hair into a bun and flit into the bathroom to brush your teeth.

Before you leave the bedroom, you creep to your nightstand, slowly open its drawer, and pull out a plastic-wrapped suture kit. Mark had chuckled when you entered the apartment with seven or eight of them wrapped in her arms that one day, cradling them with care as to not disturb your bandaged pinky. Now that Meredith needs one, you're glad you took his good-natured crap.

The television is still on in the living room. It sends bright lights flickering on the walls, and you hear hushed voices on low volume. Gingerly, you peek around the bedroom door to survey what you're about to contend with.

Sloan has not gone to bed yet; she's still on the couch, blonde waves tossed over the arm, body covered by a blanket. You have to crane her neck almost painfully to confirm whether or not she is asleep. She is. Her eyes are closed and her lips are parted, chest rising and falling with a gentle rhythm (and you sigh when you see once again how much it resembles the sleeping face in the bed behind you, as you always do). You're safe. The coast is clear. You step out of the bedroom and creep on tip-toe, first to retrieve your jacket and purse, and then toward the kitchen to grab the requested bottle of vodka.

The late-night programming of the Food Network provides you with intermittent illumination as you rummage around as quietly as possible for the correct bottle. Sloan has dozed off watching _Throwdown with Bobby Flay_ , apparently. She watches the Food Network a lot, at least during the past few months (it started with holiday recipe specials in late November and now it's back to basic programming in mid-January). Mark had noticed this one day when he walked in the door to find Sloan completely engrossed in _Iron Chef America_. It had even captivated enough of her attention to make her forget about her half-polished left hand. You sat on the bed while he watched her from behind the bedroom door. He had glanced over his shoulder at you, eyebrows raised with carefully suppressed eagerness.

"She watches these shows a lot," he had told you in a hushed whisper. "Maybe she wants to be a chef. She could do that." Then he made a face and paused, touching his chin thoughtfully. "You don't have to go to, you know, _college_ college to do that, do you?" he asked rather reluctantly after a moment, squinting at you.

You're so engaged in the memory that your hand slips, knocking one bottle into another one, resulting in a hollow _clang_. Your heart skips a beat and your head snaps to watch Sloan, and you're ready to hit the deck should the girl wake up and look over. After all, "why are you lying on the kitchen floor?" is a more easily-answered question than "why are you sneaking out at two in the morning with a bottle of vodka?"

(for some reason, you think _she's_ probably had to answer that one before)

But Sloan doesn't wake up. There are no blue eyes narrowed at you through the darkness, no disdainful curl of an upper lip, no slightly disgusted-sounding "what are you _doing_?" She just stirs a bit – her hand moves to her stomach and the gentle curve that has begun to develop there. It's almost nonexistent, but to you, it's like a huge, obnoxiously bright neon sign that blinks _MY_ _BOYFRIEND'S GRANDCHILD!_ over and over again. You bite your lip, swallowing hard. Luckily, however, it's easy to avoid thinking about that train wreck of a situation (which most unfortunately involves you more closely than you ever would have wished) at the moment.

You have something more important to deal with.

The vodka is in your left hand, suture kit in your purse, keys grasped in your right fist. You toss a determined nod to nobody in particular – to Bobby Flay, maybe – before slinking out the door.

Time to go rescue Meredith from whatever peril she's battling.

You break ( _shatter_ , really) exactly three different traffic laws on the way to Queen Anne Hill. It's not like there was anyone on the road anyway, and if there was they had more than enough room to get out of the way. And if you _had_ gotten a ticket, what Mrs. Shepherd wouldn't know wouldn't hurt her.

Despite the legality or lack thereof, you're knocking softly on Meredith's front door exactly seventeen minutes after you answered her cell phone. There's no answer right away, and it's a very cold January night; you shiver, hunching your shoulders to guard against the freezing air, holding the vodka in hands tucked into your sleeves. Seconds trickle by, and your unease grows exponentially with each and every one. Meredith is taking too long. Something's _very_ wrong. Your mind instantly jumps to several terrifying conclusions: Meredith has fallen into coma, Meredith is bound and gagged by a home invader, Meredith has been taken for ransom. Filled to the brim with trepidation, you knock again, slowly, distinctly. Before you can rap out a third set, which would cross the line into desperation, the lock clicks and the door creaks open, creating a tiny gap between the wood and the frame.

Relief courses through you, dousing your nerves, when you recognize Meredith's eyes peering warily at you through that crack.

Meredith seems to be relieved as well. She gives a prolonged blink before opening the door the rest of the way, drawing herself to her full height. "Thanks for coming, Lex." Her voice is calm; a bit breathless, but calm. But you see that her thin lips are drawn tight, that her eyes are just a little bigger than normal, and there's one crease in her forehead – slight changes in mannerisms that would have been reflected as a complete meltdown in anyone other than Meredith Grey. There's a red mark on her right cheekbone, slightly raised and threatening to bruise.

Then, you notice the rusty red blood stain on her sky blue shirt.

"Oh my God!" you exclaim before you realize you were going to, so you hastily contain yourself to, "are you bleeding? Are you hurt?"

"No," Meredith says curtly, cutting you off with a wave of her hand. The other moves to her hip to cover the smear. She sighs. "It's…it's not mine."

The air seems to get a lot colder, then. You stand there, frozen and flabbergasted, really hoping that Meredith hasn't called you here to hide a body. As though she knows what you want to ask, but can't, Meredith beckons for you to come inside. Wide-eyed, you comply, and Meredith shuts the door behind you.

And you hear it for the first time.

A deep, mournful warble explodes from the living room. Caught off-guard, the bottle almost slips from your hand. You hold onto it just in time, and Meredith pries it from you. She gives you a silent look of pure apology, lips pulled to one side and eyes sorrowful, before grabbing you by the wrist and leading you toward the source of the noise. You go along with it, numbly, feet moving on Meredith's accord.

The noise repeats itself, but the change in proximity brings about a change in clarity. It's the sound of regret. There's a low moan, followed by a deep breath and then a sniff. A woeful version of Meredith's name comes next, a lamentation that sends a chill up your spine.

You reach the archway. Three things happen, in order: you gasp. Your knees buckle. Your upper body doesn't get the message to _stop moving_ , so you almost topple over.

Sitting in the easy chair is Richard Webber, weeping quietly, gingerly holding his right hand away from his body. There's a bloody rag clenched within it. It takes a moment for him to notice your presence, and when he does look up, his eyes are red-rimmed, bleary, and altogether unfocused. After two or three more exaggerated blinks, he breaks down into heaving sobs again.

"Meredith," he slurs, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" He repeats himself a few more times until he's babbling almost unintelligibly.

You can feel your mouth falling open, but you can do nothing to stop it. Meredith's grip on your arm is her only anchor to reality. As you chew her lip compulsively, your body goes absolutely _nuts_ with dread at the sheer familiarity of the scene. The ashamed, devastated crying. The blubbered, incomprehensible words. Those looping eyes.

Every night of those four terrible months.

It grabs you, attacks you, and you shudder.

Steadying yourself, swallowing hard, pushing all of those feelings away and telling yourself for the millionth time that that's over, you regard Meredith. She's just standing there, gazing at him, twisting her watch around and around her wrist.

"Is he…?"

Your question seems to fade as soon as it hits the air, deemed unnecessary by the universe. The watch makes another revolution. Meredith's fingers slip slightly on the band. She nods.

"How long…" You narrow your eyes at him in disbelief. Maybe it's an imposter. It isn't. "How long has this been going on?"

"Since right around Thanksgiving," Meredith admits, refusing to meet your eyes, half-sighed. "He was diagnosed with alcoholism years ago and he claims it was wrong so…" She sighs again, shrugging. "I'm taking care of him. He's…he's going through a hard time, with the merger and everything. So, I'm taking care of him. But it's not every night, it's only sometimes."

And you know exactly what that means. You know it all too well and now you regret what you did, how you handled things. But you also know that, back then, you would _not_ have wanted to hear that you were wrong, and Meredith won't like it either.

You also know that nothing is in black and white.

"Does anyone else know?" you ask after an eerie pause, broken only by muffled breathing from the easy chair.

"No," your sister's response comes plainly as she raises her eyebrows at you. Her gaze is stone-serious. "And that's why you're not going to tell anyone."

A secret. Oh, _no_ , a secret. Secrets and you do not mix. Your blood pressure already threatens to skyrocket.

Ignoring your horror-stricken gaze, Meredith runs a hand through her slightly-disheveled hair. "I brought him home from the bar. I couldn't take him to the hospital, to his office, like I usually do. Derek's there. And I know Derek would want to talk to him and it just wouldn't be good. So, I brought him here."

She's looking away from you again, eyes never extending very far into her peripheral vision. She's talking with her hands.

"We got here, and I left him in that chair for about _one_ minute so I could call the hospital to find out how long I had before Derek would be finished. While I was away, he managed to stumble into the kitchen, grab a bottle of vodka, drop it, breaking it, reach down to try and pick up the glass, and cut himself." She presses the heel of her palm to her forehead, taking a deep breath. "He won't let me touch him. That's how this happened," she explains, pointing at the stain on her shirt. "So I figured I'd call you. Since you might be better at this since…" Hesitation. "Well, you know."

You don't want to burst her bubble and tell her that maybe you weren't the greatest choice. You don't tell her that you're not in the position to give advice. If you were, chances are she wouldn't have had to re-grow a liver.

But you'll try anyway. Because of the liver. Even though you know you'll never be able to make that up to her.

"That's what the suture kit is for."

She nods. "I can't take him to the hospital."

"Yeah," you say, shaking your head, looking to break the daze you're in. "Yeah, I'll take care of his hand."

You swear that you see Meredith relax – shoulders slump, eyes slide closed – but only for a second. "Okay," she says. "I have to clean up the vodka from my kitchen floor. I'm going to replace the broken bottle with yours; I know Mark and Derek drink the same kind. I'll buy you a replacement, but I just needed it…" It does out with another sigh as she heads cautiously for the kitchen. You take the suture kit out of your purse and look at the Chief once again.

His hands are shaking, you notice.

And it hits you. Something between disgust and pity runs through your mind. Before you can stop yourself, you spill it.

"He clipped the common bile duct."

You cringe and bite your lip _hard_ , but it's too late. Meredith whirls around and looks at you like you've gone crazy.

" _What?_ " It's harsh, and heat pricks at the back of your neck. You gulp.

"In surgery," you stammer. "Months ago." _Before Thanksgiving_ , you realize. "He…he nicked the patient's common bile duct. I…wasn't supposed to tell anyone." Oh, nice move. There goes the trustworthiness. Just because you can never keep your damn mouth shut, she's probably about to kick you out on your ass.

But, she says nothing. Instead, her face changes, melting into an expression of poorly-suppressed shock. She's realized something too, and you can tell that it's personal, that it stings her more than it scares her.

Before you can say anything else, she's disappeared into the kitchen. Your heart sinks.

The Chief is quiet, suddenly. Only an odd hiccup here and there gives him away. Steeling yourself, you force your legs to go to him, even though they're not working properly.

And it's your chance, you think. Your chance to make up for what you did wrong with your own father.

And, no matter how she felt, Meredith was there for your dad. You're going to be there for the Chief.

It's simple, irrevocable, undeniable, greater than the stress of your own life, it overrides your being, overwhelms your hesitation, transcends _everything_ about this situation that scares the hell out of you:

If Meredith was there for you, you're going to be there for Meredith.

"Chief," you address him one you're in front of him, keeping your voice as strong and as clear as possible. He looks at you, blinking a few times, as if it hasn't yet registered that it's you. "It's Doctor Grey. Lexie," you tell him before recognizing once again what a bad idea this is, since you kind of _are_ Thatcher's daughter and everything and that might not sit so well with his drunken mind. But it's too late for that, too. You show him the suture kit. "Your hand. I'm going to have to give you stitches, sir. Unless you're prepared to lose even more blood than you already have." Your voice doesn't shake or waver. It's almost like someone else is saying the words. But you feel vibration in your throat and it's you. It's you being there for Meredith.

For a second or two, it looks like he's going to fight you off as well. " _Sir_ ," you say again, reminding yourself to be assertive, not aggressive. "I really need to take care of your hand."

He stares at you for another moment as your words hang in the air. Reluctantly, he looks at his hand, head nodding forward dizzily. You hold your breath. Then, he shows you his hand and the blood-soaked rag.

"Doctor Grey," he says sloppily, an acceptance, an agreement.

In that moment, you can't help but think of how small he looks.

He reminds you of your dad.

But you won't let it get to you.

You barely fumble with the plastic before you've torn it open.

Snapping the gloves on, you warn him. "This is probably going to hurt."

It's the finest suturing you've ever done, really.

And if it hurt, he didn't let on; he just grimaced and tensed, either numbed into near-oblivion by the alcohol or just penitent.

You bandaged his hand when you were through, and he studied the gauze with vague interest. The next time you looked at him, he was nodding off, hand gently resting on the arm of the easy chair.

It would have been funny if it was in a movie.

Meredith must have been watching from the hallway, because she only comes back into the living room when she knows he's dozing. She approaches carefully, weighing and measuring her footsteps, balancing on eggshells, like if she makes too many sudden movements he'll wake up again. It's not like Meredith, and it breaks your heart. You don't know how else to describe the wrenching in your chest.

She sits on the sofa, stiff and upright, the farthest she can be from the easy chair, eyes switching warily between you and him. The mark that was under her eye has faded. No bruise.

And you know the feeling. You know what it's like to be sitting there after that particular night's struggle, after all the slurred promises and praise and insults. You remember being where Meredith is now, containing the fear, holding back the tears, riding out the strain and exhaustion, making sure he's still breathing because you could never be sure.

But she's not alone.

You sit beside her, saying nothing, just being. "Thanks for this, Lex," she murmurs.

Now it's your turn to weigh and measure. Expressing yourself around Meredith has never been one of your finer points, even now. "That's what I'm here for," you reply gently. "Hey, uh, you got the Sloans out of my mind for a while. That makes us even, I guess."

She laughs once, dryly, a burst of air through her nose. "No, really, thank you. It's…" A sigh. "It's never been this bad before."

You nod in solemn understanding.

" _He's a blast after five drinks. Not so much after nine, though."_

(but you'll never tell her to keep a better eye on him)

A long silence envelops the two of you. Richard's snoring is just a hum in the background.

"He called me Ellis," Meredith admits, looking down at her hands, and she must be on auto-pilot, because you know that Meredith wouldn't have told you that otherwise. "When I was trying to help him. He called me Ellis. Then he hit me."

It's like she just set you on fire. "Oh, _Mer-_ "

"No," she stops you sternly. "It wasn't on purpose. He was struggling and I was in the way."

Excuses, too. You remember them. Mostly, you made them to convince yourself.

"I know what you're going to say," she states, smoothing down your hair. "And I know. I'm in over my head. But I'm going to work this out. I just don't know how yet. I'm making it up as I go along. But sometimes I feel like all of this is-"

"-your fault," you finish for her. Your thigh is against hers where you sit, and she doesn't make an effort to correct it. She's taken aback for a moment, but then she remembers that you were already here (she keeps forgetting).

"Like if I wasn't here to help him-"

"-he would have learned his lesson."

You could tell her it's not as simple as that.

Your hands are shaking, suddenly. This is what you have to do. Support. And if she rejects what you're about to do, you're sure it'll hurt like hell. But you have to try.

There's a blanket folded neatly on the back of the couch, and you reach for it. "Come on," you whisper, throwing it over the two of you. She tenses, obviously uncomfortable.

"Lex," she says, a bit longingly, "I can't. I have to take him back to the hospital when he wakes up. I…I'm fine."

"No you're not," you counter. "You're tired. You're tired and you want to scream, or cry, or throw something, or just disappear altogether. He's asleep. He's not going anywhere without one of us. Take a rest, you need it. You've done enough for one night. Look, I'll…I'll wake him up and take him back to the hospital when it's time." And silently, you plead: _you've let me lean on you before; now it's my turn to let you lean on me_.

Meredith is motionless for a long moment of hesitant consideration, pursing her lips in uncertainty.

She pulls her feet up onto the cushion with the rest of her body, bending her knees and fixing the blanket to cover her body. Then, something you weren't expecting, her head comes to rest on your shoulder. She curls against you, and your heart does a backflip, leaping into your throat. You nearly jump out of your seat, the pleasant surprise overwhelms you so much.

But you don't – you contain yourself. Your hands touch under the warm blanket. It might not have been an accident.

"This is not your fault," you promise her. "It's not your fault. But…but you don't have to through it alone. That's the mistake I made, Meredith. I tried to handle it by myself, and look what happened. You have to let someone know, Mer."

Her head leaves your shoulder, then, and you're afraid you crossed the line. You've hurt her feelings, she's going to yell, and then you don't know what you'll do.

But she just gives you this incredulous expression, looks at you like you're just plain _stupid_.

"What do you think this is, Lex?" she demands. "I need to let someone know? Lexie, I just _did_."

You're still clueless for another second. Then, you get it.

You're the one she chose.

If you had been standing, it would have taken you out at the knees.

She rests her head on you once again, and you feel the release: tension dissipating, the stress being leached out into the air around her, a lightening. She relaxes against you, finally giving in.

You're only aware of the silent tears rolling down her cheeks because you've experienced them before.

You just hope that holding her like you are is helping.

If it is, that's the only reward you'll ever need.


End file.
